Out Damn Spot
by LOSTrocker
Summary: In which Methos is reminded of his dark past much against his will.


**A/N: **Keep in mind its been awhile since I've written a Highlander fic, espically one that deals with no OFCs. I know shocking isn't it. But after watching the Horsemen Arc, this idea came to mind and the plot bunnies wouldn't leave me alone. It's Methos centric with an appearence by Joe. Oneshot. Please excuse all mistakes. I don't have any beta.

**Out Damn Spot:**

By: LOSTrocker

Dawson gave Methos a round of his usual - one draft beer. Of course, that one turned into much more before the night was through. It still amazed the Watcher that the Old Guycould hold so much while still remaining composed as a gentlemen. It was one of the peerks of being an Immortal. They could drink and eat as much as they wanted without gaining any evidence of their souce of suppliment.

Lucky bastards.

Methos took his drink thankfullly and raised it slighting in Joe's direction. "Cheers mate," he told him. When Methos went to take a swig that he noticed it. The sudden appearence of red on his hands startled him so it caused him to drop his beverage. Ale and glass went everywhere.

"Shit," Methos cursed. "I'm sorry Joe."

"Chill, it's okay." assured Dawson as he grabbed a fresh rag behind the bar. "No use crying over spelt beer."

The mess was easily taken care of. Joe tossed the rag aside so it could be used again later. When he turned his attention back to the Old Man he could tell something was up. The color that was left in his face was gone. Methos looked like a ghost siting at the bar. "Are you all right?" the Watcher asked in concern.

Methos had drowned him out long ago. His focus was more on his hands. Blood covered them. He tried to rub it away but the more he did, the thicker it got.

Joe watched the Old Man's actions. He was really starting to worry. He reached out and shook him lighting. "Hey!"

If Dawson hadn't touched him, Methos would have been lost in the sea of red. Methos could see the corncern look in his friend's face. "Excuse me," he said quickly, pushing him away in the bar so he could escape into the men's bathroom. He locked the door behind him.

He walked over to the sink. Methos went to use the sink as some form of balance. The red was still there. He closed his eyes. "Come on Methos, pull yourself together." he chanted to himself. When he opened his eyes, the crimison was still all over his hands.

It never failed. The moment he almost forgot about his dark past, it came back to haunt him. It was a reminder of what he truely was: a villian. Sure, he'd come a long way from his Horsemen days but the truth still remained. All the men, woman, and children he raped and killed wouldn't let him rest. He remembered what it was it was like, the pleasure he got in hurting innocent people. He couldn't deny the fact that every now and then he missed those days. It was so much easier being the bad guy. You didn't have to worry about morals, or ethics. Hell, you didn't have to think. All you had to do was do what you did best - to spread evil where ever you roamed.

The Prize often came into his mind and he couldn't help but wonder what the world would be like if he gained it... Would be one of hope and light or death and darkness. His heart was tainted. It really could go either way. He'd be damned if it went to darkness. Methos would have MacLeod take his head first.

Methos wasn't in the same league as MacLeod was. He knew that the moment he met him. Mac was the good guy. The one who had reasons behind his killings. He didn't take pleasure in killing. It would be Heaven on Earth if Mac would gain the Prize at the end. God willing if he was the last one standing any way.

Methos pondered the fact if Mac took his head would it pay justice for all the wrong he's done? Blood for blood. Isn't that the old guideline? It would be a good trade off in the end. His victims could rest as could he. He's been around for a long time. He was tired. Everyone deserved a break.

The Old Man looked down at his hands again. The sea of blood was gone. His victims were satisfied for now. God only knew when they would bring it back again to toy with his mind. Methos figured it was time to go back out now. Joe was probably worried sick. So, just in case, Methos washed his hands. Then splashed some on his face to wake him from the trance he was in. It worked. He tried off and looked back in the mirror. He looked as though nothing was wrong with him. Methos was one hell of an actor. It came with practice. If anyone deserved a grammy, he did. Methos turned off the water, through away the paper towel, then maded his way back into the Land of the Living.

Joe was glad to see his friend come out of the bathroom. He looked better then he did when he went in. Joe replaced his old beer with a fresh one. Methos took his place back at the bar.

"I thought you'd fell in." Joe teased him, hoping to lighten up the mode. It did slightly but the awkardness was still there. So, Joe did what any other normal American would do in this type of situation:

"How about them Yankees?"

Fin.


End file.
